


sunken princes

by JeanSouth



Category: Dark Souls, Free!
Genre: M/M, dark souls au!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanSouth/pseuds/JeanSouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Makoto likes adventuring more than the actual fighting, but there's not much chance an undead can avoid it. When he ventures into areas that no one has seen in a very long time, he runs into something unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunken princes

When Makoto quests, he excepts it to be easy. It always has been so far; his broad shoulders carry thick, heavy armour that eats damage without question; he wears rings imbued with spells that wrap around him like a blanket, muffling malicious spells.

So this quest should be, too. It’s no more than a matter of opening a door and retrieving a crown from a long-dead king, with the way plagued by a few restless undead.

The first undead rise before he reaches Shulva, the sunken city, but they slip easily under his Zweihander. The guilt that claws at his gut is soothed when their souls curl into a bundle in his chest, relishing their freedom at the mercy of his Zweihander. It is easily as long as he is, beautifully crafted, and heavy enough he needs both hands. When he swings it, he feels strong, able to protect.

Beyond strong, though, he feels small when he steps through a door long-since locked by well-meaning knights, and sees the sunken city of Shulva. Water pours in from a ceiling miles above in mock-waterfalls, dropping down to a bottom he can’t see.

Everywhere he looks there are tall spires and stone bridges, with crumbling buildings between. He feels slightly unsteady when he crosses them, despite how solid they sound under his heavy boots. He’s not the lightest, nimblest fighter.

"Been a long time," someone says at the fifth bridge. The undead’s clothes are rotted away, leaving only armour. "The first since the city sunk, I think."

He is stuck under a semi collapsed bridge, and Makoto comforts himself that the undead feel no pain.

"Really?" he tilts his head a bit, shifts closer. Adventuring is exciting, but it is lonely, and a companion doesn’t help. Despite the undead’s leathery face (like dried beef jerky) he wedges his Zweihander under the fallen rock, and helps him free.

"Absolutely," the undead nods. Makoto doubts he remembers his name if he remembers the city sinking; after a certain time trapped alone in a mind, the sense of self is the first thing to go. "Better if no one’s here, I suppose. Not after what happened."

He leads the way from the bridge, round a building, over a narrow ledge.

"Books say the city city began to sink, so King Vendrick abandoned it," Makoto offers pleasantly without prying. The Emerald Herald never raised him to he an impolite boy.

"Absolutely," the undead repeats, and laughs. "I suppose they would say that. He was a king and he abandoned the city, sealed it off, but he wasn’t  _our_  king.”

The faint note of bitterness (so long past the point when time stopped mattering) strikes a cord. To stay loyal to a dead king for centuries is harder than anything he can ever imagine. Thinking on his questions, he follows three more long bridges, into a building. He guesses the undead was a soldier, when he notes with confidence that the inner sanctum is almost a maze. When he thinks of it, no undead have touched them.

"Who was, then?" he asks eventually, as if the conversation never stopped. Rei has lectured him on end about the crown of the sunken king, and never once guessed it wasn’t Vendrick’s.

"The dragon, I suppose," the undead shrugs, and hits a switch to reveal a new pathway. "But Sinh stopped ruling long before the city sunk. Elena ruled in his place, with good reason. A dragon flies in open sky, not underground, but the only thing keeping the city up was dragon magic."

Trapped, then, Makoto supposes. By his own kindness. Something about it is slightly tragic. He slays a poison bug as he waits for more.

"But not even a dragon can die from just being captive," the undead shrugs. "A dragon only dies when it’s killed."

Makoto imagines the secret of dragon magic was guarded closely; after the great war, dragons were all but hunted, the scales trophies to decorate armour, and ambitious knights never gave up.

"Elena tried," an odd tinge colours the undead’s voice. "But witch magic is different entirely. It was really only their son with dragon magic, but no one foresaw he’d have to wear a crown, and it turned out too heavy for his head. Suddenly carrying the weight of a city on his shoulders broke his back. Maybe sinking quickly was better for him. No time for the people to suffer. He spent more time in the water than on a throne, anyway."

He chuckles lightly, oddly, and stops at a fog wall. They are Makoto’s least favourite things; wandering undead are unthinking, driven by instinct, but those behind a fogwall think, feel, and scream when they die.

"Let’s go," Makoto grits his teeth, and slips through. The stench hits him first; the fallen pile around him, and around the crazen queen.

"Elena ruled with grace," the undead insists, and finds a weapon. "She shouldn’t have to spend her death any other way."

With a screech (sorrow, anger, rage, the sound of a strong mind broken by tragedy) she summons witchlights and targets the weakest option; Makoto has no time to say bye before his companion is no longer undead, and he has to charge the sqaulid queen.

Afterwards, he sleeps at the bonfire, only safe near fire.

Without a guide, the undead rise towards him again; bone and sinew on the bridges until he reaches the lake near the bottom, and fights off their bloated forms.

This part is the same since before sinking; a bridge over deep, dark water, and a door even he struggles to get open. It is the first light in years, he imagines. It makes it so the only surprise is a living thing; not how pale it is.

Part dragon, he remembers. They don’t die until they’re killed; like the undead Makoto is one of.

The part-dragon is pale, with silver- blue scales all over his arms and legs, shiny black hair and solemn eyes. He swims up and leans on the edge of the bridge, watching Makoto. He thinks a sunken city is lonely.

After a moment’s hesitation, Makoto reaches out to the crown he needs to slip into the castle’s sanctum, back on the surface.

"Can I take this?" he brushes his fingers over the crown; it is more of a circlet, bright gold and bejeweled. It is tangled from years of swimming, and barely moves at the subtle nod.

He has to take off his gauntlets to untangle it eventually, and sets it beside him. It weighs nothing.

"Thank you," the prince murmurs, shoulders further back, eyes brighter. Makoto is wrong; a crown is heavy in many ways.

"You’re welcome," Makoto smiles. He hopes it embodies the sun. "Would you like to repay me by travelling to the surface with me? I’m sure the guards would never attack you."

Without hesitation, he clambers onto the bridge, dragon-nimble, and leaves Makoto sure he will come out the door, and on adventures.


End file.
